


Rope Burn

by mayinwinter



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Biting, Blood, Bruising, Canon Typical Violence, M/M, as usual there are more complex things lurking behind the narrative, captured Hannibal, captured Will, characters who save themselves, i am sorry this is me writing self-complacent random stories, intended sexual assault, no graphic descriptors of sexual nature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:14:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayinwinter/pseuds/mayinwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And in a sharp contrast to his until-then languid ways, Will saw the man settle fully atop Hannibal’s thighs and take a violent hold of his hair, forcing his head backwards, latching his mouth onto the exposed skin of the doctor’s neck. His other hand was harshly pulling at the dress shirt, making buttons rip and clatter to the floor as he exposed Hannibal’s white undershirt.<br/>Panic and anger erupted in Will’s mind again, emotions all his and not being fed through external projection.</p>
<p> <br/>---<br/>Something of a snapshot: a murderer and rapist has evaded the FBI until now, when he takes the bait and captures a profiler and a consultant criminology psychiatrist. Cue the scene, and action. Rope burn will be the less of the disturbing mementos from this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rope Burn

“Perhaps I am a difficult man to please. I admit to being very welcoming of a pretty face but if, and only if, I can also find charm in a set of intense eyes. A nice shapely figure is not everything, I for one pay attention to graceful and strong hands, be them of women or men. I appreciate skill and class as much as I appreciate the shy and demure. Hmmm. The bow of thin lips…”

And the man’s honeyed words seemed to become more and more focused, a very distinct and specific tone to his descriptors. Will watched, expression set to stone and eyes razor sharp, as the man’s light steps took him to circle around Lecter, bound the same way Will was, hands behind his back tied to the chair’s frame, ankles in a similar fashion against the wooden legs, the doctor’s own necktie acting as gag between parted lips.

For a moment, Will could not see the man’s face –the dilated eyes and almost charming smile- as he stood in front of the bound psychiatrist, a hand coming up with all the naturalness of casual interaction.

“The severity of a masculine face, high cheekbones, a troubled mind” –the comment accompanied the man grazing Lecter’s face with fingertips, one more step to the left and the touch started veering more towards a caress as his fingers slid over skin, over the tie’s silk and back over sensitive lines at the corner of the doctor’s eye.

By what Will could see, Lecter’s eyes remained calm and serious as the criminal stroked his face, not betraying any sense of disturbance at what was quickly becoming an obvious declaration of intent by their captor.

Will pulled at his bound wrists and ankles, attempting to redirect the criminal’s attention on him.

For his part, the man smiled just a bit more but did not turn to look back at Will. His eyes continued to take on the sight of Lecter –bound but stoic, almost bored- and his words continued to slip out, soft and pleasant.

“You should not attempt to gain my focus, agent. I find myself inclined to share with you more about my taste of beautiful things. Here, here. See your colleague, this FBI dog of prey, this consultant for hire. A doctor, passive and introspect, the image he must usually project. But isn’t he the one to point at all the right corners for you and your FBI to search through? Don’t people now associate him with you, the profiler of monsters? I’ve heard you seem to have very little in your life, profiler. And when we have very little, we are prone to become unconsciously territorial, are we not? ”

Will’s eyebrows furrowed further. Why attempt to threaten him or the FBI through a proxy, through Lecter, when Will was right there. It was not the MO of this man, he never saw this criminal as the type to roundabout in such a clear and tacky manner. What is more, Will had never been a specific target of this man.

Will saw the man lean down some inches, fingers now carding through Lecter’s hair at his left temple.      

“You see a lot with these eyes, don’t you doctor? You observe and comment plenty on what you think and what you deduce. A veritable mental compass in the flesh of a tall foreigner. Would you be of the opinion that the FBI profiler is becoming amiable to you? Learning to more than confide in your advice?”

Will experienced a sudden spike of panic. A criminal addressing a captive, making it personal, it was a double-edged weapon, especially when the criminal exhibited no sign of being open to the humanization of his peers. But the panic was short-lived, because Lecter did not actually fit into the mold of a conventional civilian.

Will saw how Lecter blinked, slow and measured, sight steady. There was no movement of his head in affirmative or negative. No attempts at talking through the gag, or shows of fear and anxiety.

“You would think this is a question that serves no purpose as I am not really interested in the depth of your interactions with the profiler, wouldn’t you? You realize I actually do not care for what he does or how you relate to him and that I only want this FBI boy to feel guilty about what transpires between us” –the man seemed to smile with self-deprecation- “You’ve caught me, I admit it. Indeed, I do not care for the strings attached to my beautiful findings. I can see you and, if I want, I can forget entirely about your dance with the bureau. Why would I bother, when I see far more attractiveness in this moment and the precise happenings of the now? When I could make you focus all of your concealed mind unto me, make you lose sight of what is in front of you. Tell me, is your accent thicker when you forget yourself?”

And in a sharp contrast to his until-then languid ways, Will saw the man settle fully atop Hannibal’s thighs and take a violent hold of his hair, forcing his head backwards, latching his mouth onto the exposed skin of the doctor’s neck. His other hand was harshly pulling at the dress shirt, making buttons rip and clatter to the floor as he exposed Hannibal’s white undershirt.

Panic and anger erupted in Will’s mind again, emotions all his and not being fed through external projection.  His feet were firmly planted on the ground, pushing up in an attempt to lift his body even if still bound to the chair, pulling up, trying to at least move forward two steps and topple over the criminal bent over Hannibal, to stop this and Will was partially aware that the man continued to bite and suck over the doctor’s neck and collarbones and his hand was now inside the front of the tailored trousers and of a sudden, Hannibal’s right hand came from behind the chair’s frame, unbound, and taking a hold of the criminal’s jacket collar, he brought the man’s face away from his now bruised shoulder, harshly pulling the man back and toppling him sideways from his lap out of sheer element of surprise.

The man hit the floor in a graceless stumble, and sat there for one precious second in disconcert, still not understanding whose hand had taken a hold of him. That second was enough, though, and Will saw Hannibal not releasing his hold on the jacket collar, but instead bringing in the man’s head towards his right knee, bashing his face in quite effectively and repeatedly, speed and force and broken nose and blood.

In a matter of instants, their captor lay sprawled on the floor, unconscious. The man hadn’t even screamed, just gasped at the hits and gone down.

Will looked at the immobile man and then the doctor, another pause of a second.

Hannibal’s right hand, the one that had come free, was stained red. Thin rivulets of red staining the shirt sleeve and running down his palm, blood from the torn skin around his wrist. Will saw this as the older man started to work the silk tie out of his mouth.     

Will was also aware of the bite marks and traces of saliva and the complete disarray of clothes that exposed the doctor’s body in clear signs of the attack he had just gotten himself out of, by apparently rubbing his wrist raw until freed.

“My watch” – Hannibal said when his mouth was free and he had swallowed down enough moisture to make up for the gag. He looked up at Will as he explained, lifting his right arm where the rope burn had more than become an open self-inflicted wound- “The rope could slide easier on the metal wrist band. I was counting on him being distracted enough not to notice anything.”

Will nodded, as he was still bound and silent. Will himself had not caught any sign of discomfort on the doctor’s face or posture during the time they had been strapped to these chairs. For a moment Will wondered since when was Hannibal’s right arm free and if he had waited out the groping until being sure enough that he would catch the criminal by surprise.

Will wouldn’t put it past this rarity of a psychiatrist, actually.

Meanwhile, Hannibal was releasing the knots on his ankles, pulling with enough force to disentangle the coarse rope, then sliding out from the chair to one side, bent on his left knee to work free his tied left arm.

Once completely free and up, Hannibal took the two steps that separated him from the unconscious man and used the recovered rope to tie his wrists and ankles. And then he was right there with Will, quick and silent and utterly taking him by surprise by opening his jacket and starting to pat down his many pockets.

Will caught up in the next second; though, as Hannibal’s deft fingers came out with his pocketknife. Will watched him flipping one of the blades open, and then felt him carefully cutting through the knot of the gag at the back of his head.

A cough and a swallow, and then Will addressed the doctor, who had moved to kneel to the side and was working on Will’s bound wrists.

“How did you know about my pocketknife?”

Maybe not the most reasonable question to ask under the circumstances, but Will’s other options clambering on the back of his throat were inquiries that went from the asinine “how are you?” to the perturbing “did he break skin with his teeth?”

“Early in our acquaintance I admitted to you, dear Will, that I cannot turn off my observations the same as you cannot turn off your emphasizing. Please forgive me if this continues to hold true, and as we work closely together, I do tend to observe and notice habits and details of your person” –Will was rubbing his own rope scratched wrists and listening to Hannibal’s quiet words as he cut away the last of the ankles bindings- “You’ve used this pocketknife in at least two occasions during the time we’ve known each other. And you mentioned it in another opportunity in a thoughtless fashion, if you would pardon my unrequested opinion, when offering to help me with the beer caps instead of using my kitchen utensils”.  

Will allowed himself the lopsided smile, quickly understanding the doctor’s aim at making light of the situation. The situation being they had made it out of a hostage scenario with a schizophrenic murderer and rapist and were now discussing how Hannibal apparently paid attention to what Will carried in his pockets and probably the brand of bath products he used and the fur color of his seven dogs.

Also, Will remembered that time, being purposely obtuse around Hannibal’s kitchen to make the man tilt between amused and annoyed. Will’s rare brand of humor was prone to make an even rarer appearance on those nights when their work conversations stretched late enough to guarantee that Hannibal would extend a dinner invitation, not-so-secretly glad for the opportunity to feed Will something more than stale coffee and vending machine sandwiches.

“Here” –came the murmur from Hannibal, as Will stood up from the chair and extended his hand to receive back his pocketknife.

They stood close together as Will went from taking the object to raising his other hand to lightly circle Hannibal’s right wrist.

“You’re the doctor so you don’t need me to tell you this needs to be cleaned, right?” –Will said under his breath, and the next second he took one step more into their shared space, his hand traveling up to move aside the open shirt, his eyes going over the bruises and bite marks.

It wasn’t until Will caught Hannibal’s slow blink that he realized the breach of personal space committed, the casualness Will had assumed at hovering over the doctor’s purpling skin.

Will took a couple of steps back, an apology caught in between his tongue and the roof of his mouth. But he abstained, as Hannibal appeared neither upset nor much too phased by the comment and the action. Instead, the older man was also putting some distance between them and proceeding to adjust his trousers and remove his ruined dress shirt, using it to swipe away blood and drying saliva.

Will could only imagine how distasteful that would feel to the man.

“Are you okay?” –Will surprised himself by letting out the question. Will always rolled eyes at that query. It was as bad as when the doctor asked about his feelings.

Hannibal turned his brown, ever-neutral eyes at Will, this time allowing a little moue of disgust to appear on his features.

“It was quite the unpleasant short encounter, yes, but I am fine. Thank you, Will. As you correctly pointed out, I shall clean this when we’ve cleared the place”.

Will huffed, laughing his unamused laugh. He did believe Hannibal; though. The man seemed to be very difficult to shock into negative reactions.

Will checked twice on the unconscious captor’s vitals and the firmness of the knots, and then returned his attention to the doctor. Taking off his jacket and walking back to Hannibal’s side, he offered the piece of clothing for him to cover, instead of being left only in the white undershirt. Will was prepared to bodily force the man into it if he refused –if only because Will felt no inclination whatsoever to continue looking at the marked skin- but Hannibal took it quietly and with a nod of gratitude, putting it on. The place they were in was freezing.

It was meager compensation, letting the other man have the cover. Hannibal had quite truthfully rescued them both. They knew Jack and his team must be tracking them and on their way by now, but meanwhile, plenty could have gone wrong. So the jacket was Hannibal’s until they made it out of this basement and into the upper floors of the house, until they found where their captor had stashed Will’s gun, their cellphones, the doctor’s suit jacket that had been originally wrestled off the doctor in order to cover both their eyes at some point. Until then, Will was content with catching a side-eyed look of Hannibal wearing bespoken trousers and a hunting jacket, easily imagining dark loose jeans on the man to replace the current mismatch. Coupled with Hannibal’s current stubble at their second day of captivity, it leant him a less proper look.

In that moment he saw in his periphery how Hannibal adjusted the collar, a flash of the unmarked side of his white neck catching Will’s attention. In a flash his mind brought back the memory of the doctor’s iron control, coupled with the visual of the thin lips still on Will’s low sight line, and a frisson of interest traveled through Will’s awareness, an undercurrent of heat along his spine.

“Let’s get out of here” –Will nearly barked out, mood darkening at what his thoughts were attempting to remind him that he found attractive. He climbed up the stairs, knowing Hannibal was right behind him. Surprisingly enough, the door that led to the rest of the house was unlocked.

As they searched through the small but cluttered living room, Will was highly aware of the presence of the other man. It was not unusual, though.

He was always aware of Hannibal, when they worked together. His paddle and his compass.

Sometimes he reproached himself for how normal this had become to him. For how normal it had become for him to chance jokes with the doctor. For how usual it was for the doctor to visit him and cook for him. For how well matched they were in their pursue of the dangerous and the lost. For how easy it was to transition from ‘Doctor Lecter’ to ‘Hannibal’ in his mind’s monologue.

Will’s eyes stumbled into Hannibal’s by mistake, only to see the doctor turn away first with a small satisfied smile, as if he was privy to Will’s thoughts.

Will blinked twice, thrice, consciously suppressed the irrational smile, and continued to look for their belongings, pretending for another couple of minutes he hadn’t already spotted Hannibal’s jacket lying crumpled behind the abandoned divan in the farthest corner of the room.

**Author's Note:**

> I know we are not supposed to apologize for writing and sharing fics. And I know probably everyone writes to please their inner musings. But this is so beyond self-serving, dear all, I am sorry. Yes I wanted to see Hannibal put in a vulnerable position in front of Will. And yes I wanted Hannibal to also be his own rescuer. And yes somehow this was born out of a random idea when re-watching Skyfall and that nice BondSilva chair scene.
> 
> There are many improbabilities here, but please suspend your disbelief a little bit. I can only excuse myself by saying that, previous to this moment, Jack and his team DID have a sound bait/hook/sinker strategy to capture the bad guy. But it must have gone wrong, as it is usual for poor Jack. Also how convenient that the unnamed criminal is so insightful when it comes to Will and Hannibal, you may wonder that. Ah! It's because he was fed info about his "bait".
> 
> Actually in my head there is a second part of this where we talk about how the remainder of Hannibal's bruises is not sexy neither arousing for Will and thus it does not magically evolve into sex fic, but it takes time and talking and Will working through the separation from 'dark-assault-mental-projection' to 'acceptable-to-touch-Hannibal's-neck-because-we-honestly-want-to'. 
> 
> I think Hannibal is not a cannibal in this random storyverse *GASP* The infamy. 
> 
> ps: I whined in my tumblr (same username over there, how lucky) about posting this story. I really was/am that annoyed at giving in my stupid musings. There are other things I want to write and instead we get this.


End file.
